


House of Cards

by notablyindigo



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Developing Relationship, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-04
Updated: 2014-07-04
Packaged: 2018-02-07 09:27:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1893900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notablyindigo/pseuds/notablyindigo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marcus Bell makes a set of assumptions that don’t work out very well for him. Or perhaps they do..</p>
            </blockquote>





	House of Cards

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t want to be your friend   
> I just want to be your lover.   
> No matter how it ends,  
>  No matter how it starts.   
> Forget about your house of cards,   
> And I’ll do mine.   
> \- “House of Cards” by Radiohead

The first time they sleep together it is, more or less, an accident. 

They’re up late at his place combing through case files, and it’s when one glass of wine turns into three or four that boundaries become blurred. One moment, he’s brushing a stray lock of hair off her face, and the next he’s fumbling with his belt buckle, her heels pressing into the small of his back as she pulls him in closer. She runs her hands up his chest, brushing her thumb along the ridge of his collarbone as she lifts her hips to meet his. Later, when he’s putting himself back together and she’s cleaning up in the bathroom, the recollection of her teeth against his throat is enough to make him hard all over again. He examines the bruises left in the shape of her mouth the next morning as he buttons his shirt—the dark grey one she likes—and finds that he likes that she’s left her mark.

Marcus isn’t sure what he expected to change between them. In the subsequent days, she doesn’t mention it, and neither does he. They chat as usual, about work and life and newly-discovered running routes. Sometimes there are updates about Andre, almost through his first year of parole. There is the occasional glance or roll of the eyes over a Sherlock quip, or the brush of fingers as coffee is passed from hand to hand, but it’s no more charged than usual.  
Until, suddenly, it is. Files, it seems, brings them together. They’re sitting at the table in the precinct conference room looking at the records of potential suspects on a new case, and there’s no alcohol to blame (credit?) this time when Joan gets up from her chair and climbs onto his lap. Her skirt rides up her thighs and his hands settle immediately on her hips, pushing the fabric up further. He’s already straining against his trousers as she undoes the zipper, and when she takes him in, he has to bite his lip to keep from moaning aloud. He lifts the hem of her blouse, wanting to see more of her, but she stops him, guides his hands back to her waist. 

“Just fuck me,” she murmurs, her hair falling over both their faces, and he does.

It becomes a weekly tradition, with unspoken rules. She shows up at his apartment in the evening and they begin with little preamble—no wine, little conversation. They fuck on the couch, the living room floor, in the kitchen, but never in his bed; they leave no marks; and they don’t discuss it afterward. He notices quickly that she prefers to be on top, which suits him just fine. He likes watching her face as they move together, her dispassion falling away as she comes undone around him. 

Sometimes she just undresses him, admiring him like an artist, a sculptor, exploring his body with her hands, her lips, her tongue. He longs to do the same, to unwrap her bit by bit, to have her spread bare before him. To see and touch and taste. Inevitably, though, he finds himself relinquishing control to her, to hands on his chest pushing him back into the carpet or holding his hips still as she dictates the pace. It’s only after she’s gone that he remembers that he hasn’t ever really seen all of her at once.

She’s an actual detective now, ever since the Moriarty sting—less Holmes’s shadow and more of an investigator in her own right. She has her own clients, too, brings them down to the station sometimes to take reports and testimony. She pulls him in when she needs to, but it’s not very often. He thinks about sitting in on her interrogations or offering his help, but stops himself. He has his own casework, after all, and Joan is beyond capable. And he doesn’t want to appear desperate.

It’s obvious from the beginning that Holmes knows. Marcus isn’t sure what gave them away, but when he shows up at the brownstone one evening to give the consultant team a case update, Holmes opens the door and fixes him with a long, knowing look before inviting him in.

“I guess we were being careful for nothing,” he says to Joan as she climbs off of him the next evening, panting and slightly sweaty. She reaches for her dress and begins to put it on over her teddy (a sheer, lacy number that drives Marcus wild). He puts his arms around her waist and pulls her back against his chest, and she laughs as he presses kisses to her neck.

“Stay the night,” he says, his lips traveling up to her jaw. “Holmes already knows, no point in hiding it anymore.” Joan turns to meet his mouth with hers, and he slides his hand between her legs, eliciting a soft moan. 

“Is that a yes?” he asks when they break away for air, but Joan shakes her head and pulls gently out of his hold.

“I can’t,” she says, rising to her feet so she can slip the dress on over her head. Marcus looks up at her from his position on the   
living room floor. 

“Can’t, or won’t?” he asks, and Joan stops in the process of smoothing her collar. 

“Marcus…” He gets up, turning away from her as he dresses.

“I guess I’m just confused,” he says, looking over his shoulder at her as he does up the last of the buttons on his shirt. He tries to keep his voice level, but the hostility seeps into his tone anyway. “You work with the guy. You’re not married to him. Why let him control what you do and don’t do? Not everything has to be about Holmes.” Joan’s bemused expression quickly slips into one of annoyance. She shrugs on her coat, shoulders her purse, and makes her way to the front door.

“I didn’t make this about Sherlock, Marcus,” she says coolly, hand on the doorknob. “You did.” The door slams shut behind her.

Fuck.

—-

It takes Marcus forever to fall asleep that night, and the next morning at work he feels about as energetic as a crumpled paper bag. He doesn’t even try to conceal his surprise when Joan shows up at the precinct about an hour into his shift. She left his place at almost 2:00AM, and who knows when she woke up, but she’s still turning heads (per usual) as she approaches his desk. She sets a cup of coffee down in front of him.

“We should talk,” she says. He nods, rising to his feet, and they walk in silence out of the building.

They make their way to the small park next door to the station, find a bench, and sit. Marcus waits for his too-hot coffee to cool while Joan takes long, steady sips of her drink. On any other day he would, as he had in the past, make a joke about her being a dragon (not a dragon lady, mind. He’d made that mistake with an ex long ago and had barely survived it), but now doesn’t seem like the appropriate time, even if she is making alarmingly fast work of coffee that is still hot enough to scald his tongue.  
Joan drains her cup and places it on the bench beside her, taking a deep breath in through the nose.

“So, about last night,” she begins. Marcus puts his hand out to stop her.

“Joan, first things first, I wanna apologize for what I said. About you and Holmes, I mean. It was out of line.” He pauses, takes a sip of his coffee, and winces. “Hot,” he says by way of explanation, and places the cup on the ground by his feet. “Anyway, I don’t have a problem if you don’t want to be with me. That’s fine—we’ll still work together, we’ll still be friends. But whatever the reason, if it’s Holmes or if it’s something else, sneaking around isn’t my style. And I don’t think it’s yours, either.”  
At these last words Joan’s eyes, which had been trained on her folded hands in her lap, dart up to meet his. She sighs.

“One of these days you guys’ll learn to actually let me finish a sentence before you monologue yourself into a corner,” she says, not unkindly, and Marcus feels a momentary indignation at being lumped in with Holmes in Joan’s book. “Obviously we should’ve talked things out before doing…well, before doing anything.” Marcus snorts audibly at this, glancing over at her.

“That ship sailed, put out an SOS, and sunk a long time ago,” he says, and Joan can’t help but smile.

“I didn’t stay over last night because I had an appointment on the other side of town first thing this morning. I don’t stay over, period, because you’ve never asked me. And because, as much as I like your apartment, I prefer waking up in my own bed.” An ambulance goes screaming by the park, lights and sirens blaring, and Marcus’s hand goes instinctively to his pocket to make sure he has his phone on him. Joan looks out toward the road with a concerned expression, then back at him.

“Do you need to…?” she asks, but he shakes his head.

“Go on,” he says, picking up his now lukewarm coffee. Joan studies him for a moment before continuing.

“Sherlock knew from the very first time,” she says, and Marcus nearly falls off the bench in surprise. Joan smiles at him wryly.   
“We were hardly subtle,” she says, then wrinkles her nose. “Also, he has this weird theory that there’s a relationship between recent orgasm and gait.” At this, Marcus bursts out laughing.

“Orgasms…affecting the way you walk?” he says, incredulously. Joan nods.

“Well they weren’t exactly in short supply,” she says, smiling coyly, and Marcus thanks god in heaven for his dark skin and its ability to mask (or mostly mask) even the worst blushing.

“Alright, so then if he knew, why all the hush-hush?” he asks, and Joan rolls her eyes.

“If you think Sherlock’s insufferable at work, it’s because you’ve never lived with him,” she says. “Just because he knows doesn’t mean I have to give him more ammunition. As it is, he already keeps changing your ringtone in my phone to ‘Touch My Body’ by Mariah Carey.” Marcus guffaws.

“Why not just put a passcode on—“

“He picks luxury car security systems for fun. Do you really think four numbers are going to keep him out?”

“Ah.” Right.

“Anyway,” Joan continues, “wanting to keep…this…quiet isn’t all for Sherlock’s benefit, much as you might think so.” She’s smiling gently and keeping her tone light, but Marcus knows a chiding when he hears one. “We work with other people,” she says. “Captain Gregson and the rest. I’m a consultant, and that too I’m a new consultant. I don’t need people doubting my competence.” She pauses and looks up at him, picking her next words. “Besides, I thought this was how you preferred things.” Marcus’s mouth falls open.

“Wait, it’s not that I—“ 

“I don’t remember you saying anything to anyone when you were dating Officer Reyes,” Joan counters, and Marcus frowns. That was an entirely different situation. That was a…

Office romance. Oh.

“I like my privacy,” he says, a petulant note creeping into his voice. Joan nudges him with her shoulder. 

“Well, we have that in common,” she says and he nods, both of them lapsing into silence. Marcus waits several long moments before posing the question he’s been waiting weeks to ask.

“So what do you want to do?” he asks, and he finds himself holding his breath has he waits for her response. Joan looks at him, studying his face. 

“Honestly, I like what we’ve been doing,” she says, reaching over to slide her hand into his. His fingers tighten reflexively around hers.

“Maybe with a little less subterfuge?” he asks, and Joan nods.

“And a little more dinner,” she adds, and Marcus quirks an eyebrow at her.

“What can I say?” she asks with a grin, getting to her feet and pulling him up along with her. “I seem to work up quite an appetite whenever I’m at your place.” Marcus chuckles.

“I can work with that,” he says. “Just one more question.” He comes to a stop as they pass through the doors into the precinct. “Do you not…like my bed? Because we never seem to use it.” This time, it’s her turn to laugh. Joan looks around, checking to see if anyone is watching them, then pulls him down for a quick kiss. She smiles against his mouth. 

“I have no idea," she says, winding her fingers in to the short hair at the nape of his neck. "We always seem to get distracted before we make it that far.”


End file.
